Burning
by Hermione W. Cullen
Summary: Bellatrix Lestrange will never forget this night, nor will any present...A look inside Bella's demented mind. Rated T for insinuations and some emo language. Oneshot, no requited pairings.


_A/N: Bellatrix is crazy. It's not my fault, the voices told me to do it! R&R!_

"First order of business," came an oily-smooth, unnaturally high male voice. "Bellatrix Lestrange."

"Yes, my lord?" responded Bellatrix at once, her voice throaty with rapture at being acknowledged by her master.

"The Longbottoms—you were given the task of…indisposing them. Have you done it?"

"Yes, my lord," said Bellatrix slowly, as if savouring her own words. "The Longbottoms will no longer trouble us."

"So they are dead?" interrupted Yaxley gruffly. Bellatrix shot him a glare that could have chilled the bones of a more warm-hearted person.

"No," she said rather rudely. "They are insane. Driven mad with pain and fear. They were in pain for a long, long time tonight." A wide grin spread slowly across Bellatrix's face, her eyes closing as she replayed the scene in her head: Frank Longbottom's screams of agony, his body writhing on the floor in sensual, exquisite pain; Alice's frantic eyes as she chose her son's safety over her husband's sanity…and then Alice was on the floor too, and Frank's eyes were beginning to glaze over…

Lord Voldemort spoke, cutting off Bellatrix's reverie but only increasing her ecstasy. How she loved the sound of his voice, her lord, her one true master, the man who would bring prosperity to the pure, the worthy…the noblest of them all…

"You have done well," said Voldemort coolly. He sounded truly pleased; his pale mouth twisted into what could almost pass as a cruel smirk. In Bellatrix's mind it warped into a wide, congratulatory smile. "You have done very well for me in the past few months, Bellatrix. In fact…come here." Bellatrix thought she had never seen anything so fine as the fluency with which he crooked his long, pale pointer figure, nothing so alluring or irresistible as the way he gestured her to him. She swaggered around the long table, giving her skirts an extra swish for Yaxley, whose malevolent eyes betrayed his jealousy.

The Dark Lord peered down at her, his eyes hard, completely free of emotion. If not for the icy smirk that was now more pronounced on the warped features of his creamy-pale face, his pleasure with her would have remained unknown.

"Kneel," he said simply.

Where any other Death Eater would have been quaking with fear, Bellatrix kneeled formally, deferentially. Her head was cast downward and her body swayed to the syncopated rhythm of her elation.

"My lord," said Bellatrix, emotion clogging her voice like molasses poured into the gears of a machine. She looked up at him, and her eyes were watery, soft and warm with love and devotion. It was a sickening expression, thought Voldemort, a subservient expression, like a house-elf. He smirked more widely at the irony of this.

"Hold out your arm," said the Dark Lord, his eyes cruel. He wanted her to suffer for her love of him. He wanted to watch her squirm. She had no right to love him. He would not allow it.

"My lord," said Bellatrix, choking on her own bliss, "Thank you, my lord! Oh, master I…I…"

"Your arm, Bellatrix."

"Yes, my lord."

Bellatrix held out her left arm, her eyes hardening as she waited. Now was no time to lose herself in adoration; the Dark Lord would not include her in his inner circle if she had any affection, any pity, any _weakness_ in her. She had to be just as brave as he was. She had to be just as pure as he was. She must think only of her cause, the noblest of all purposes : maintaining the purity of the Wizarding world.

Lord Voldemort touched the tip of his yew wand lightly to the milky skin of her forearm, brushing it so lightly that it tickled a bit. Then, suddenly, the burning began, a searing pain so sharp Bellatrix thought she would combust on the spot. The sharpness of the spell, however, did not anger Bellatrix; in fact, it pleased her. The burning should have been agony, but the pain only fueled her pleasure. The sizzling flesh was the Dark Lord's work, the heat on her skin all his own…this was the most real thing for her, the sickly smell of baking flesh, the way her nerves panicked, shied away from the choking, searing heat…this represented the only two things she had ever believed in: the nobility of pure blood and the righteousness of her lord and master.

Bellatrix's upper lip curled slightly, revealing a row of unexpectedly white teeth that glowed in the sallow candlelight. The other Death Eaters were drawn in despite themselves; something in the way she was sighing, soft but piercing, was utterly captivating. Rodolphus looked on, hating himself, hating her, thinking what a fool he was to believe she loved him. He had swallowed her tales, had truly felt they had a bond, thought she might have some small affection for him, something that would stir her compassion, bring back her mind, make her a little bit human again. But it was clear that it was He she loved, the Dark Lord. That scared him, more than he could say. He hated her for it, he wanted to punish her, wanted to hurt her. But nothing could hurt Bellatrix Lestrange, the woman who felt no love and reveled in pain.

Voldemort pressed his wand deeper into her arm, making the Mark burn hotter, the skin char deeper. She felt the pain, and cried out, not in discomfort but in happiness. The Dark Lord was trusting in her, forming a deep bond between them. She grinned at the thought of the Mark—her Mark, her very own—burning white-hot again, how maybe, like this time, she'd feel it down to the bone, and know that the very core of her being, the very frame of her body, was urging her to take the righteous course. And she would always respond immediately, never hesitating, never swerving, never doubtful or disloyal or afraid. In time the Dark Lord would come to value her, come to see her worth…of course he was preoccupied with other matters now, but she did not fault him for that. He would come to love her in time.

And then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. The yew wand was no longer connected to Bellatrix's skin, but she was not unhappy. For it left a deeper connection, something she knew would never fade, a mutual righteousness. And that slow, delicious burning would linger forever, in her memory and on her left forearm.

"Lord Voldemort is merciful," said the Dark Lord, sneering viciously, "pray you do not test that mercy."

"Never, my lord. Thank you, my lord." Bellatrix bent down to kiss the hem of his robes, then rose, catching Lord Voldemort's eye. He saw none of that soppy subservience in them this time, just hunger, cruelty, and understanding. Rather than reprimanding her, the Dark Lord condescended to meet her eyes. He realized at that moment exactly what he had just gained—a loyal, reliable servant with no weaknesses. The Dark Lord had a vassal with no fear, a minion that could not be stopped.

When Bellatrix Lestrange Disapparated home that night, she was still drunken with unbearable joy. She believed that, in the moment the Dark Lord had met her eyes, she'd seen something no other human being would ever see.

Tom Marvolo Riddle, the man whose sneering face had been the last sight of so many, had looked at Bellatrix Lestrange with some measure of respect.


End file.
